


When in Rome...

by drcalvin



Category: A Midsummer Night's Dream - All Media Types, Szentivánéji álom | A Midsummer Night’s Dream - Szakcsi/Müller
Genre: Adventures in mortality, Ancient Rome, Fairies, Gen, Gifts, Loyalty, Pre-Canon, Puck is a cheerful little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What gift is fit for a king? Especially when the king is as glorious as the immortal Oberon, master of all the unseen spirits of the world?</p><p>Puck doesn't know the answer, but a suggestion leads him to investigate where not even the king of fairies ventures: the mortal world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When in Rome...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veronasowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronasowl/gifts).



> This fic is technically written for Szentivánéji álom, the Hungarian musical of A Midsummer Nights Dream, but it is pre-canon and fairly pan-Shakespeare compliant.

Traveled wide and far had Oberon the fairy king, and marvels untold had he experienced. His was the freedom of moor and dale. Before him, the deep forests bowed when his entourage blew in on the west wind. The serpents of the seven seas owed him favors and debts, as did the ice spirits beneath the aurora and the orchid-dwelling salamanders in the rainforest.

Treasures with his mark on lay hidden all over the world. His gemstones lay buried beneath lake and wood. Hidden on the highest mountains, so that their smoke mixed with the clouds smoldered firebird feathers, while deep inside olive groves and mammoth trees lay armors of silver and deathly sharp obsidian swords.

To him was Puck sworn; spirit of the lost path and nightly chaos, the king's most favored servant and friend.

Which was why said spirit, usually so light-hearted and free, now slumped on a rock with his forehead creased in worry.

"How about, listen to this, how about a pair of shadow boots?" asked his friend, Alder. "He's worn the pair he has for at least a hundred years."

"No! No, no, not good at all!" Puck shook his head until down flew from his head. "He received those from her Ladyship's own hand."

"Ohh… And you said he already has emeralds the size of a babe's head?"

"He has a handful, and that's only the ones I hid myself."

Puck's other steadfast follower, Dís, had long sat cross-legged and silent, untypically deep in thought. "How about…" he said slowly. "No, no that's a bad idea. I think?"

"Out with it, my friend! I am stumped, I am baffled, I have no clue what to do! For my lord's last anniversary, I plucked him a shooting star out of the air and wrapped it in magic before it turned cold and dead. Before that, I invented a joke that had never been heard before and stunned even our Queen into laughter; he still speaks fondly of that moment. But I cannot give them only words again – besides, that was the last joke untold – and there is not one corner of the wild world Oberon hasn't visited yet."

"Nor one he hasn't pinched a treasure from!" giggled Alder. 

"The world has grown old and dreary," Puck proclaimed. "I despair."

"Well, I was thinking it like this – and I have to say, thinking is wearing indeed! I can't understand how you do it so often, Puck."

"Oh, as long as you don't think too long at once, 'tis not so very hard once you've got the knack of it. Now give me your thought, and let me see if it was worth the effort."

"It's been a thousand years and some odd moons since the last time we celebrated the crowning, yes?"

"Correct," said Puck.

"Ohh, a thought with numbers in it. I never liked those," Alder complained.

"And before that, there was another lot of years, and I tried to count them all but they were a bit too many – but it was more than thousand, right?"

"At least two," Puck said with all the confidence of a being to whom sums were mortal enemies. "M'lord didn't feel anniversarious for a while, not like the time we celebrated him thrice in a moon turn."

"Right! And before that, mortals were still mostly mucking about –"

"Ew, you've got mortals in your thoughts!"

"They're not really in his thoughts, Alder," explained Puck. "When you think of something, you merely grasp the shade of its essence."

"But mortal shadows? That's almost as bad as the real thing."

"Well, if you let Dís finish his thoughts, he can spit out all the mortal stuff that much quicker. So shut up and listen!"

"The point is that mortals were mostly mucking about with rock and, and maybe a bit of gold back then."

"And fire!" Puck said, his smile turning sharp. "I do so like that they invented fire. Flame-blinded, they see everything that isn't there, while missing everything that is. Until you can pluck nightmares and mirages straight out of their well-smoked heads. And as long as they think they see the tiniest spark, they'll follow everywhere… Even into caves and corners they ought never to have entered."

"Well, they're not that clever," Dís said. "Can't blame them, that big fleshy cabbage in their heads must make it hard to fit in thinking. But they seem to be doing neat things with their hands. So perhaps, if you go to the mortal places, you'll find some little trinket Lord Oberon hasn't seen before? It's not a new joke, or useful like a pair of boots, but the novelty of it could perhaps entertain – or so I thought, but you know I'm not too used to thinking."

* * *

Puck had listened to a lot of wanderers over the years. Mortals traveled more and more, and thanks to him, many spent a large part of these travels lost and searching for the right way. 

Some mortals lately claimed that all roads led to Rome. Now, Puck knew roads and the only place all roads lead, were to further roads, because they were all stuck together. Except the fairy roads, which led to nowhen and allwhere. Or the roads that led straight off a cliff, which Puck liked to appear longer with a bit of moonlight and smoke. Although, technically those did go to the sea, if a bit steeply. Then, there were the roads that he untangled from the rest and then fed their own tail, until a wanderer could circle for days and months and years without ever getting anywhere; those were fun. He should check up on the one he'd put away a year or five ago, in case the caravan had done anything interesting lately, or give them a prod if they were still just lying around.

But first, Oberon's gift!

Rome. It wasn't all roads, but enough of them; Puck found the city on the seven hills before the echoes of his laughter had dispersed from the glade where Dís and Alder waited. Good friends they were, sang well and danced gaily, but going among mortals was an adventure they'd rather avoid.

Puck considered giving Oberon a city gate. It was big and he surely didn't have one yet. But would it look very impressive without the bustle of a city to set it off? Puck thought not.

He rejected the idea of a child immediately. The babes around him were all scruffy and loud, and Oberon hated anything that screamed louder than himself. And there were… other… considerations. 

Usually, Oberon and Titania adored children, but at unpredictable intervals, the sight of them made his royals upset. It could even set them quarreling or weeping, when they thought nobody heard. What if Puck gave his king a gift that made him weep? The shame of it! Then he'd have to figure out a way to turn himself as bone-still and grave-silent as mortals ended up once they ran out of whatever kept them moving, and he'd lie still for a thousand, thousand years in penance. And Puck hated being still!

So, no children. Oberon would have to pick out the ones that made him happy from the other, grubby ones on his own.

He saw swords and knives on some mortals. Oberon didn't have a steel sword yet, Puck thought. But he wasn't entirely certain how to carry one back, when he couldn't bring it along the fairy paths without burning his hands off. That would have to wait until he had more time to ponder the problem.

Food? There were all kinds of food stalls, although several of them seemed to sell the animals of the forest, sometimes in a skinless, headless version. Puck did not approve of skinning rabbits without his permission and he made sure to invite the buzzing king of flies to any stall where he recognized forest kin. 

There was other food, though, and Oberon ate. Sometimes. When he remembered that he enjoyed it. If Puck gave him food, he'd probably be reminded. He could be a bit confused, Oberon, probably worn out from trying to be so very kingly all the time.

So a nice snack served by his friend and confidant might be just the thing he needed!

But – and here Puck patted himself on the back, lacking his friends to do the admiring – not all food was created equal. Puck didn't do much eating himself, too busy with other matters, but he knew that there was tasty food (mortals liked fresh meats and ripe fruits, for instance) and disgusting food (they didn't like meat Puck made fuzzy and slimy, and were always upset if he leeched the red apple of its color just as they grasped it).

And mortal food ought to be mortally tasted, no?

In a small alley, Puck turned thrice round his own his shadow. Then, with a mighty jump, he sprung from the fairy world into the heavy world of flesh. Since it was neither equinox nor full moon, the worlds lay far apart and he had to use considerable power to carry him through mortality's veil. 

He landed heavily in a puddle of water, dizzy with the effort. When finally, the world righted itself, he rose. Alas, the knees of his pants were ruined and his hands were grimy and wet. 

Puck was still contemplating his hands – wet! both inside and outside, all fleshy! – when two mortals ambled past the alley. 

"These barbarians are growing worse every day," someone said, their voice as snotty as any dragon's. "Look at that! A filthy, painted Briton. In broad daylight."

Puck looked around curiously. He had never seen a painted Briton, or any other kind either, but there was nothing there except amphoras that smelled of salt and fish.

He opened an amphora instead, and tried the liquid inside. Very salty, very fishy, but too translucent to be proper paint. Boring.

Returning to the market, Puck walked up to a stall full of interesting blocks, ranging in color from pure white to creamy yellow, or even some scraggly brown versions.

"Hello," he said. "This is food, yes?"

The stall keeper eyed him. Puck smiled back, his friendliest smile.

"Are you an actor? Or an acrobat?"

"Acrobat?" Puck loved watching acrobats, often laughing at their clumsy attempts to like fairies. But they came closer than most mortals and seemed a good sort; he supposed he could be an acrobat. That decided, he smiled and bowed – they often did at the beginning, for some reason – and jumped high into the air. Two backflips was all Puck allowed himself, still unused to the weight of body, before he landed and grinned brilliantly at the stall keeper. "Yes! An acrobat, that I am!"

"Most impressive!" the man said, sounding much friendlier now. "Your troupe holding a show anywhere soon? My son loves these things."

"Ohh… well, it's not decided yet. Where and… things like that. But I can come back and tell you, if you let me taste your food? I want only the best, because it's a gift to my master."

"Ah, then I suggest some of this new Nîmean variety; freshly brought in today! You'll not find another cheese like this in all of Rome."

Puck tasted cheeses and, though he didn't find them very exciting, he bought three sorts. For the cheese, he paid with dry leaves and a berry he found in his shoe, but for the idea that he pretend to be an acrobat, he found out in which house the stall keeper lived with his family. Tonight they'd dream the performance of their life, with stunning acrobatics and dancers of unearthly skill; Puck paid well, when he found the service worthy.

He sampled olives until his tongue grew numb, then refreshed himself with citruses. Fresh fish and fowl he avoided, finding their dull eyes unsettling now that he was not wholly air and spirit. The iron-red of animal meat held no appeal at all, and he doubted very much Oberon would like it. 

Bread he found dull. The spices and sauces sold from a pungent shop made him sneeze and twist his face until he thought it would fall off. Inspired by the people eating on the street, Puck tried some warm foods, but nothing felt fit for a king.

Beyond the food market he came to a street of artisans. There was glassware and silver, none nearly as fine as what Oberon already owned. But the cloth, woven, felted and embroidered, all interested him. It was much thicker and heavier than the wind-light weaves Puck was used to, and many pieces had a pleasant structure. The vendors promised they would help someone keep warm, which was a nice thought, he believed. 

In the end, Puck bought a carpet from Armenia Major and a blanket from the Apennines. They both had odd, shimerless colors that stayed the same every time you looked and the blanket smelled faintly of goat and hard work; novelties he was sure Oberon would appreciate.

Wearing flesh was heavy work. When the sun sank, Puck followed the sounds of revelry to an inn, where he bought himself a bed with cracked acorns and empty snail shells. 

Then he tasted other foods: cooked beans and more sorts of bread. Wine, he already knew. Oberon often sent him to gather tribute from all the wineries his king considered owing fealty; meaning all the ones whose lands had once been forest. 

The wine served here did not impress him, but Puck knew the trick of gaining mortal friends – he bought a round for all sharing his mealtime, and was allowed to listen peacefully to their gossip. 

Two men were discussing the price of candles and Puck decided that he ought to get some for Oberon. A thing that burned down so swiftly, turning hard wax into air and light, ought to appeal to his philosophical side.

Another group discussed shipping, and Puck wondered if he ought to bring his lord a ship? But they seemed not to move very well without their sailors, and those were a grubby lot indeed. He feared Titania would voice her disapproval.

More wine was brought and again, Puck shared generously. They asked him to sing something, or dance, and despite his heavy head and clumsy limbs he stood – onto his hands, much to general hilarity – and sang them a song. The roaring applause that gained him was another new experience, which Puck wished to repeat. Another song, a dance upon a table, jumps and twirls and flips and flights, spreading as much delight as his flesh allowed him. 

Finally, Puck fumbled a skip and realized his limbs were trembling wildly, while his back was soaked in sweat. Refusing the calls for more performance, he said farewell, laughed off some requests for his company in bed, and stumbled alone to his cot.

* * *

There was someone smithing thunder using his head as the anvil, and during his sleep an adder had pumped venom into his mouth. Puck moaned and covered his ears, his hands trembling.

The door slammed open. Through bleary eyes, Puck saw a person storm in. The innkeeper? But was he not a smiling, clapping fellow, who offered a little snack with every glass of wine? This was a sour-faced mortal, and no applause nor snacks in sight. 

"What is the meaning of this, you scoundrel!"

"Meaning?" Puck felt like an owl caught out on a sundrenched day, his eyes too large for their sockets. "What meaning?"

"This!" The man held out his big, fleshy hand, showing broken snail shells and small twigs. "And this, for all that wine you wasted yesterday?" His other hand contained mice teeth and pine needles. 

"That's from a pine tree north of Germania and those are, uhh, you wouldn't know them, but a gift from a friendly clan of mice living at the eastern shore."

The innkeeper was not pleased with his answer and yanked Puck from the bed, shaking him so that his braids whipped along his back and his poor skull rattled with pain.

"I am out an entire pithos of wine, thanks to your antics!"

"That's… bad?"

"Bad! Is it bad, he asks, as if you didn't know the value of gold, you tricksy little scammer. Now cough up the coins you stole from me, or I'll break you apart until I find them!"

"I do believe that is enough of that." The familiar voice, now dry with amusement, woke Puck from his wine-soaked confusion.

"My lord!"

"Greetings, my Puck. I see you had a wild night." Oberon smiled at him before, his face growing cold, he turned to the innkeeper. "I do not appreciate the way you are manhandling what is mine. Neither do I believe that there is only one thief and scammer in this room." He snapped his fingers twice – on the first, the innkeeper let go, on the second snap, he turned and marched out through the door.

"Where did you send him, oh lord? I only ask because yesterday, he was kind." 

"So meek all of a sudden, my Puck? Do not worry, I sent him neither into the Tiber, nor to the roaring sea. Only to the courthouse, to admit his evaded taxes and forged weights – let mortals deal with him, in their mortal manner. As for you, Puck, you have had mortal fun enough!"

Then, with a swiftness that dazzled Puck's befleshed sight, Oberon grasped his hand and yanked them both through the veil of eternal shadow, leaving only a rumpled bed and some dropped spangles behind.

"But – but my lord, the gifts!" Puck looked around the room. His food, the carpets, they were all still there, though they looked a little paltry when seen from outside mortal time. Still, he had found nothing better. If Oberon took him away for punishment, or sent him on a mission, mortals were sure to take his things and hide them away, where he might not find them before the celebration.

"Gifts?" Oberon patted down Puck's sleeves, his nimble fingers fixing his hair and putting his feathers into order; everywhere his king touched, Puck's colors grew brighter, as the last hints of mortality drained away. "You have journeyed a long way for these gifts," he murmured, blowing dust from Puck's cheek. "To whom where they intended?"

"You, my lord and master." He fidgeted. "The anniversary… I have found no eternal marvel perfect enough to give you!"

"Oh." His hands came to rest on Puck's head, then sank slowly down to clasp his shoulders. Oberon crouched, until they stood eye to eye – Puck squawked and tried to kneel, but he shushed him with a gentle smile.

"I called for Puck at dawn, but only your companions answered. They had heard nothing, knew nothing, and I believe even they had sense enough to worry. So I came to find my spirit, and to scold you for abandoning your duties to, ah, who knows – indulge in the pleasures of flesh, perhaps? Instead, who do I find sweetly sleeping but Puck himself, that weaver of unruly dreams."

"I wove a dream yesterday," Puck confessed. "But I made it a very cheerful one!"

"I'm sure you did." Oberon bent forward, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Let us leave now, my Puck, and bring your gifts along. Stove them away then, swiftly, and I shall forget I ever saw them until they are unveiled at my celebration." Gesturing the door open, he walked slowly out of the room, his cape billowing on wafts of his power. "But then, you must return to me and tell me all that you saw and felt in this mortal world! That gift, I do not wish to share with the court."

Puck laughed in delight, drawing magic over the gifts to carry them away. A story, his king wished? Oh, what a story Puck would weave him!


End file.
